As summer gradually surrendered to autumn, the winds sweeping through Tokyo carried with them a chill that threaded its way between the city's towering steel and glass skyscrapers, bringing relief to some and inconvenience to many more. Yet despite the changing season, the machinery of the metropolis continued to turn without pause, driven by the millions who inhabited it. Offices remained illuminated long before sunrise and long after sunset as salarymen and women spent their days seated behind glowing monitors, fingers dancing across keyboards while endless mountains of reports, spreadsheets, proposals, and paperwork passed beneath weary eyes in exchange for another paycheck and another month of survival.
For many, daylight had become a luxury rather than a certainty, something glimpsed through office windows rather than experienced firsthand, and as the weeks slipped by, so too did many of the incidents and controversies that had dominated conversations throughout Tokyo only a short while ago. One story, however, refused to fade.
Within the world of the URA, Hatchimitsu Melody's victory at the Shūka Shō had ignited a media frenzy that consumed headlines for weeks, fueled not only by the race itself but by the weight of the lineage attached to her name. As the daughter of the late Kadokawa Hornet, one of the legendary Godly Fifteen, and the granddaughter of the equally celebrated Agnes Takao, Melody had found herself thrust into a spotlight far brighter than any she had ever imagined.
She had long since lost count of how many microphones had been pushed beneath her chin, how many cameras had been aimed in her direction, and how many interviews she had endured repeating the same handful of questions regarding her mother, her dreams, her ambitions, and the future people insisted awaited her. More than once she had felt on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion alone, and had it not been for Air Groove remaining steadfastly at her side under Rudolf's instructions, she might very well have done exactly that.
Growing up, Melody had heard countless stories about the fame that accompanied greatness. She had been told that success at the highest level came hand in hand with public attention, that one day reporters would seek her out, cameras would follow her movements, and crowds would cheer her name. Like most young girls, she had imagined something glamorous, almost magical in nature. What she had not anticipated was the sheer relentlessness of it all. Every victory brought more questions. Every achievement invited more scrutiny. Every race became another opportunity for strangers to dissect her life as though it belonged to them.
For most umas, winning the Shūka Shō was exactly what it appeared to be. A prestigious victory and an important milestone in an already promising career. For Melody, however, it had become something far larger than the race itself. The media had seized upon the narrative almost immediately, weaving stories about destiny, legacy, and inherited greatness, drawing endless comparisons between mother and daughter while speculating whether she might one day equal or even surpass the achievements of the Godly Fifteen.
Melody had always assumed such attention was simply part of the journey, another hurdle every successful racer eventually faced, yet nothing had prepared her for just how overwhelming that spotlight could become when it finally settled upon her. Now, for the first time in what felt like forever, she finally had a moment to herself.
Melody lay flat on her back in the middle of her room, her crimson eyes fixed upon the wooden ceiling overhead while the familiar softness of the tatami mats cushioned her beneath. The room itself was modest and traditional, from the sliding paper doors to the woven mats lining the floor, yet every available inch of wall space had long since been claimed by her obsession.
Her gaze drifted across posters of the Godly Fifteen that covered the room like a shrine dedicated to racing history. Replica champion sashes hung neatly from hooks, resin figures stood proudly atop shelves, photo albums were stacked with meticulous care, and rare memorabilia occupied every remaining corner. Even after years of living surrounded by them, she never grew tired of looking.
Rolling onto her side, Melody's eyes eventually settled upon the shelf positioned above her desk where the championship plaque from the Shūka Shō sat prominently displayed. A small smile found its way onto her lips.
Every early morning training session, every exhausting drill around the track, every punishing workout Hana had subjected her to suddenly felt worth it. She could still remember the countless days spent gasping for breath while her trainer demanded more from her, pushing her beyond what she believed possible and refusing to let her settle for anything less than her best. Even now, the evidence lingered throughout her body. Her muscles ached. Her joints protested. The strain from her final spurt still lingered beneath her skin like a reminder of how close she had come to her limits. The truth was that her attempt at the Royal Flush had been executed almost perfectly.
Almost.
The move had achieved exactly what she intended, but the cost had been greater than she realized in the moment. According to the doctors, several muscle groups had been stretched dangerously close to tearing, while multiple ligaments had suffered enough strain to warrant immediate concern. Had she pushed herself even slightly harder, the outcome could have been far worse. Fractures had been a genuine possibility, and the fact that she escaped without them was, according to the medical staff, largely a matter of luck.
Melody grimaced at the memory and rubbed her cheeks.
The diagnosis alone had earned her another one of Hana's infamous cheek-pulls, accompanied by a lecture severe enough that Melody suspected her trainer had been equally furious and relieved beneath the scolding. Despite that, however, she couldn't stop herself from thinking about the racer who had inspired the technique in the first place.
Lucky Strike.
The more she reflected upon it, the more absurd the comparison felt. Lucky Strike had executed the maneuver with an ease that bordered on the supernatural, suffering little to no meaningful blowback despite the immense physical demands involved. It spoke not only to her own extraordinary talent, but to the caliber of training she had received beneath Logan Deschain, The Hand of God.
Even now, years after his departure from the spotlight, his influence remained visible through the racers he had shaped. The realization that a technique so devastatingly effective could appear effortless in the hands of one athlete yet nearly destroy another served as a stark reminder of just how far Melody still had to go.
Rolling back onto her back once more, she stared at the ceiling and let out a quiet breath. Part of her understood that comparisons were unfair. The Godly Fifteen were legends for a reason, and Logan Deschain had become a myth long before she ever stepped onto a track. Yet despite knowing all of that, a small part of her still wished that one day, somehow, she might become even a fraction of what they once were.
Melody's ears twitched at the faint rasp of knuckles against the wooden frame of the shoji door leading into her room. It was a soft, respectful sound, little more than a courtesy knock, yet it carried clearly through the quiet of the manor. She pushed herself upright and turned toward the entrance just as the paper-screened door slid open a few inches, revealing the silhouette of an uma, one of the household attendants standing beyond.
"Ojou-sama, my apologies for disturbing you, but you have a telephone call."
Melody tilted her head.
"A… telephone call?" she repeated.
The words felt oddly antiquated the moment they left her lips. She owned a mobile phone like everyone else her age, and most conversations happened through messages, group chats, video calls, and social media. Even speaking directly over the phone felt strangely formal nowadays. The only people in the manor who regularly received calls through the household landline were her grandparents, and even those conversations were usually related to business, family affairs, or matters involving the estate. In fact, Melody could not remember the last time anyone had called the manor asking specifically for her.
The realization made her pause.
Perhaps this was what older generations meant whenever they complained that girls her age preferred typing over talking. The thought brought an equal mixture of embarrassment and reluctant self-awareness.
"I'll be right there," she said.
The attendant bowed her head politely before withdrawing and sliding the door shut once more. Melody climbed to her feet and straightened the oversized black T-shirt she wore around the house. The garment hung loosely from her frame and had slipped off one shoulder sometime during her lounging, exposing part of her collarbone before she adjusted it back into place. After brushing down her jeans, she made her way toward the door, sliding it open and stepped into the corridor beyond.
The moment she left her room, the scale and grandeur of the estate revealed itself once more.
Her family manor had stood for centuries, a sprawling traditional estate whose origins stretched back to the Edo period, and despite extensive restoration through the generations, much of its original architecture remained untouched. The hallways seemed to flow endlessly beneath dark timber beams polished smooth by time, while intricately carved pillars supported sweeping tiled roofs that extended over broad verandahs encircling the property.
Beneath her bare feet, the lacquered wooden floors gleamed like polished amber, reflecting the warm afternoon light that streamed through the open sides of the manor. Every board was immaculate, maintained daily by a staff whose dedication bordered on obsessive. The scent of cedar and aged timber lingered throughout the corridors, mingling with the faint fragrance of incense drifting from one of the family shrines deeper within the estate.
To her right, the hallway opened completely onto the gardens. Even after living there her entire life, the sight never failed to impress her. Rolling emerald lawns stretched across the grounds in carefully measured sections, broken only by stone pathways that wound through the landscape. Raked fields of white gravel formed intricate patterns around clusters of weathered stones, while maple trees brushed the edges of the property, their leaves gradually surrendering their summer greens to shades of crimson and gold.
At the heart of the garden lay an expansive koi pond whose glasslike surface reflected the sky above. Schools of brilliantly colored koi drifted lazily beneath the water, flashes of red, orange, white, gold, and obsidian weaving through the depths like living jewels. Small wooden bridges crossed portions of the pond, while carefully placed lanterns stood watch along its banks, waiting for evening to illuminate the grounds in soft amber light.
Everything was enclosed within a tall stone wall that surrounded the compound and shielded it from the city beyond. The estate itself occupied so much land that visitors often compared it to the famed Satono and Majiro family properties, and although Melody had always dismissed such comparisons as exaggerations, she could never deny the sheer scale of the place. According to her grandmother, generations of her family had expanded the manor piece by piece until it became less a residence and more a self-contained world hidden within Tokyo.
For the longest time, Melody had been captivated by the thought that every corridor she walked, every garden path she crossed, and every room she entered had once been used by ancestors who lived centuries before her. Sometimes she imagined them standing exactly where she stood now, gazing upon the same gardens and listening to the same wind rustling through the trees.
The bamboo blinds lining the verandahs had been rolled upward and secured neatly beneath the eaves, allowing the cool autumn air to drift freely through the estate. Around her, attendants moved quietly about their duties, their footsteps scarcely making a sound against the polished floors as they maintained the household's immaculate condition.
Yet it was not the servants who drew Melody's attention. As always, the security personnel remained stationed throughout the grounds. Her gaze drifted toward them automatically. Dozens of men occupied strategic positions throughout the manor, some standing beneath covered walkways, others posted near gates, entrances, and garden paths. Every one of them wore immaculate black suits, polished shoes, dark sunglasses, and discreet earpieces. They looked less like household guards and more like the security detail assigned to a head of state or a high-ranking politician.
They had been there for as long as Melody could remember. When she was younger, she had asked her grandparents countless questions about them, but the answers had always been frustratingly vague. Sometimes her grandmother claimed they were simply precautionary measures. Other times her grandfather brushed the questions aside entirely with a laugh and a change of subject. Eventually, Melody had stopped pressing the matter and accepted their presence as just another part of life within the estate. In fact, after so many years, she knew every one of them by name.
"I know Dojima-san is complaining," the familiar voice said from somewhere down the corridor. "The man complains more than a toddler denied dessert, so unless the building is actively on fire, tell him to sit down, pour himself another glass of sake, and wait for Kaichō-sama to arrive."
Melody ears perked up as she slowed to a stop in the middle of the hallway and turned just in time to see a familiar figure making his way toward her from the opposite direction.
At first glance, most people assumed Tsubakino was a beautiful woman. Clad in a perfectly tailored navy-blue business suit, with a crisp white shirt beneath and a scarlet tie hanging loosely around his collar, he carried himself with a natural elegance that many women would have envied. His long black hair flowed nearly to his waist, broken only by the vivid crimson highlights framing sections of it, while his makeup was applied with such flawless precision that Melody occasionally wondered whether it bordered on actual magic. Rose-red nails, expertly applied eyeliner, subtle blush, and lips painted in a matching shade completed an appearance that somehow managed to look both sophisticated and effortless.
Yet beneath all that beauty and refinement stood a man. A man who, rather unfairly in Melody's opinion, looked better than most professional fashion models.
"Kaichō-sama is already on her way," Tsubakino continued into the phone, punctuating the statement with a weary sigh. "Please tell Hira-san not to start another argument before she arrives. The last thing I need this afternoon is watching those two attempt to murder each other through—"
"Good afternoon, Tsubakino-san," Melody called out, straightening her posture before offering a respectful bow.
Tsubakino stopped in the middle of his stride. Surprise flashed across his face for a brief moment before his expression softened immediately.
"I'll call you back," he said into the phone. "No, I don't care what Dojima-san is threatening. Tell him I'll deal with it later."
Without waiting for a reply, he ended the call and slipped the phone neatly into his pocket. The change in him was almost instantaneous. The tension that had been lingering around his shoulders disappeared completely, replaced by a bright smile and a noticeably lighter demeanor as he approached her.
"Melody-chan," he said warmly, "it's wonderful to see you up and about. I don't believe I've had the chance to tell you personally, but congratulations on your victory at the Shūka Shō."
A faint blush spread across Melody's cheeks.
"T-Thank you, Tsubakino-san." She rubbed the back of her head sheepishly before adding, "I haven't seen you around much lately. Have you been away on business?"
"Business is putting it rather mildly," Tsubakino replied, planting his hands on his hips as he released an exaggerated sigh. "Umemiya-san has been overseeing the expansion project down south, which means the rest of us have been running around desperately trying to keep everything else from collapsing while he's occupied. At this rate, all this stress is going to give me wrinkles, and after everything I've invested in my skincare routine, I simply refuse to accept such a tragic outcome."
Melody couldn't help laughing. "Even if it did, you'd still look beautiful."
Tsubakino immediately placed a hand over his heart in dramatic fashion. "Oh, Melody-chan, if you keep saying things like that, you're going to make me emotional."
Despite his theatrical reaction, the compliment had been entirely sincere.
Melody had always admired how effortlessly elegant he seemed. Whether he was attending a corporate meeting, a family gathering, or a formal event, Tsubakino always looked perfectly composed and impeccably dressed. Compared to him, Melody often felt painfully ordinary.
"Actually..." she began, hesitating as she touched her fingertips together. "Can I ask you something?"
"Anything, Melody-chan."
"Well..." Her ears lowered slightly. "It's just that you always look so amazing, and I was wondering if maybe you could give me some advice. You know... about everything."
For a brief moment, Tsubakino simply stared at her. Then he leaned forward so suddenly that Melody nearly jumped.
"I'll do you one better," he declared enthusiastically. "How would you like a proper girls' day out?"
Melody blinked in surprise. "A girls' day out?"
"A spa, manicures, shopping." Tsubakino counted each item off on his fingers as he spoke. "We'll spend the entire day pampering ourselves, and when we get home, I'll personally teach you everything you want to know. Honestly, Melody-chan, you're a champion now. Looking your best off the track is every bit as important as performing your best on it."
Melody's eyes immediately lit up. "Really?"
"Of course, really."
The excitement washed over her all at once. Without even thinking about it, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Thank you, Tsubakino-san!"
Tsubakino laughed softly as he patted her head. "My, my. Someone's enthusiastic."
Then a thoughtful look crossed his face, as though he had suddenly remembered something important.
"Speaking of which, don't you have somewhere to be?" he asked, tapping a finger thoughtfully against his chin. "Unless I've suddenly become senile, I seem to recall hearing something about a telephone call waiting for a certain young champion."
Melody froze as her eyes widened dramatically. "Oh no."
Tsubakino burst into laughter almost immediately.
"Oh crap, you're right!" She quickly released him and hurried down the corridor, nearly slipping as she spun around and broke into a jog. "I'll see you later, Tsubakino-san!"
"Tomorrow, Melody-chan," he called after her with a wave. "I'll speak with your grandmother and make all the arrangements."
"Looking forward to it!"
Tsubakino watched her disappear around the corner, listening as the sound of her footsteps gradually faded deeper into the manor. For several moments he remained where he was, smiling softly to himself before letting out a quiet sigh and shaking his head.
"My, my," he murmured as he resumed walking down the corridor. "She really is growing up far too quickly. It feels like only yesterday she was small enough to fit comfortably in my arms."
****
Melody stepped into the grand foyer of the manor, a space so vast and meticulously maintained that visitors often mistook it for the entrance hall of a museum rather than a private residence. A sweeping staircase dominated the center of the room, its polished wooden steps curving gracefully toward the second floor, while sunlight streamed through the towering windows and spilled across the lacquered floors in warm bands of gold.
The walls were lined with portraits spanning generations, each one offering a glimpse into the long and storied history of her family. The oldest paintings depicted stern-faced ancestors dressed in elaborate Edo-period kimonos, their topknots carefully arranged and their katanas displayed proudly at their sides. As the portraits progressed through time, they reflected the changing eras of Japan itself, showing family members in Meiji-era military uniforms, Victorian-inspired fashions from the nation's modernization period, and eventually the tailored suits and formal attire of more recent generations. Standing among them felt less like viewing a collection of paintings and more like walking through a living timeline of the family's legacy.
Fresh flowers filled the room with a delicate sweetness. Large arrangements rested atop polished side tables throughout the foyer, each one meticulously maintained and replaced daily. Their fragrance mingled with the subtle scent of cedar and aged wood that permeated the manor, creating an atmosphere that felt both elegant and timeless.
Above the staircase hung a massive square canvas framed in gold leaf. Across its surface, a single kanji had been painted in bold black brushstrokes. Her family name, and according to her grandmother, the piece had been commissioned decades earlier from one of Japan's most respected calligraphers and was regarded as one of the family's most treasured heirlooms.
Making her way toward the staircase, Melody approached a small table positioned beside it, where an old-fashioned telephone rested. Even now, the sight of it felt strangely out of place. Its elongated receiver sat neatly upon the cradle, untouched by modern design trends.
After taking a steadying breath, Melody lifted the receiver and pressed it to her ear.
"H-Hello?"
A brief pause followed before a woman's voice answered in English. "Am I speaking with Miss Hachimitsu Melody?"
The voice was refined and composed, carrying a distinctly American accent that had been softened by years of professional courtesy.
"Yes?"
"Oh, thank goodness." The woman released a relieved sigh. "I was worried there for a moment. I'm afraid I don't speak Japanese, and I was already trying to think of alternative ways to explain why I was calling."
"No, no, it's alright," Melody replied quickly in English. "I can speak English just fine."
A warm chuckle drifted through the receiver. "I'd certainly hope so. Your mother would've been mighty annoyed if you couldn't."
Melody's ears twitched involuntarily. There was something oddly familiar about the woman's voice, though she couldn't immediately place it.
"Please forgive me," the woman continued. "I should probably introduce myself properly before this conversation becomes any more confusing. Then again..." A note of amusement entered her tone. "Considering the stunt you pulled at the Shūka Shō, perhaps introductions aren't entirely necessary."
Melody blinked in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"Well, it's not every day I wake up and discover that someone halfway across the world has decided to dust off one of my old techniques and use it on national television." The woman laughed again, sounding genuinely impressed. "That move took me months to develop and even longer to refine, yet you went out there and performed it under race conditions without so much as blinking."
Melody's eyes widened as the implications of those words began to sink in. Then the realization struck her all at once.
"Wait..." Her grip tightened around the receiver. "You mean—"
"Nice to meet you, Melody." The woman sounded as though she were smiling. "My name's Lucky Strike."
For a moment, everything inside Melody seemed to grind to a halt. Her body stiffened, her ears shot upright, and even her tail puffed out behind her like a startled cat. "L-L-Lucky Strike?!" she practically squeaked. "The Lucky Strike?!"
"The very same," Lucky replied with an easy laugh. "Though these days I'm mostly just a retired racer who traded my silks for a stage in Vegas. Still, seeing the Royal Flush appear on my feed again after all these years certainly brought back a few memories."
Melody remained completely frozen as the name continued to echo through her mind, because Lucky Strike was not merely a retired racer or some old champion whose footage occasionally resurfaced online, but one of the Godly Fifteen, a living legend whose name was known throughout the racing world, and somehow, impossibly, that very legend was on the other end of the line speaking directly to her.
"Honestly, I was confused at first," Lucky continued. "One minute I'm minding my own business, and the next my name starts trending online. Then reporters begin asking questions, old race footage starts resurfacing, and suddenly people are talking about the Royal Flush again as though it never disappeared."
The amusement in her voice remained unmistakable. "Truth be told, I don't follow racing very closely anymore, especially not what's happening overseas. Retirement has a funny way of changing your priorities. But with my name suddenly popping up everywhere, I got curious enough to look into it."
Melody listened in stunned silence, scarcely trusting herself to speak.
"And imagine my surprise when I pulled up the footage and saw someone actually using the Royal Flush," Lucky said. "Not just anyone either, but Hornet's little girl. Last time I saw you, you were still a baby, and now here you are, all grown up and running G1 races." Her words gentled further. "You look so much like her, you know. Your mother."
Melody finally found herself again, though it came out thinner and shakier than she would have liked. "It's an honor to meet you, Miss Strike. I'm a really big fan, not just of you, but of all the Godly Fifteen, and I know that probably sounds like something every fan says, but I mean it."
She nearly bowed out of instinct before catching herself. "I know your techniques, your major races, your records, and I even have all your merchandise."
Lucky chuckled on the other end, the sound easy and good-natured. "Well, I'm honored, though I'll admit that seeing you take a G1 at thirteen makes me feel impressed and a little jealous at the same time. As you probably know, I didn't start racing until I was sixteen, and I didn't start winning the big leagues until I was eighteen, which means I had plenty of folks reminding me that the older you get, the smaller your chances become."
A faint sigh slipped into her voice, though it carried no bitterness. "I wasn't a prodigy, Melody, not the way your mother was."
Melody smiled softly, her fingers tightening around the receiver. "Even so, you became a legend alongside the Fifteen, Miss Strike, and that means something."
"Talent only got me so far, Melody," Lucky replied, and for the briefest moment her tone shifted into something more reflective. "If not for your father—"
Melody's ears twitched as confusion crossed her face. "My… father?" she asked, her brow furrowing. "That's odd. Did my father train you before Logan Deschain did?"
"What are you talking about, Melody? He's—" Lucky stopped herself so abruptly that the silence on the other end felt almost physical, and Melody's grip tightened around the receiver as she waited. "I'm sorry," Lucky said at last, returning with a nervousness that had not been there before. "Slip of the tongue. Yes, I was originally scouted by your father before I joined Logan's team, though only for a while, since I realized pretty quickly that I wasn't exactly a good fit."
"Um, okay," Melody replied, though the explanation did little to ease the strange feeling settling in her chest.
Before either of them could linger on it, the faint sound of a door opening came through the line, followed by another voice speaking from somewhere on Lucky's end. "Miss Strike, you're on six, and it's a full house."
"Give me a sec, I'll be out in a bit," Lucky called back before the door closed again and her attention returned fully to the phone. "Anyway, I just wanted to call and congratulate you on the win, and more than that, I wanted to tell you to keep going. You've got a real future in this sport, Melody, and I don't doubt for a second that you could go far, maybe even further than any of us expect."
Her voice softened once more. "Maybe even further than all of us ever did."
A soft smile found its way onto Melody's lips, though it trembled slightly as tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. "Thank you, Miss Strike, truly," she said. "I've spent my entire life looking up to all of you. Every member of the Godly Fifteen has been an idol to me for as long as I can remember, and hearing someone like you say those things about me after everything that's happened feels almost unreal. I honestly don't think I have the words to explain how much it means."
Lucky let out a quiet, amused laugh before responding. "I'm happy to hear that, but I still wouldn't recommend letting it go to your head. One major victory is an incredible achievement, but it isn't enough on its own to make someone a legend."
She paused before continuing. "Any uma can win on a particular day when circumstances align in her favor, but the racers who become truly immortal are the ones who continue climbing long after everyone expects them to stop."
Melody listened carefully, hanging on every word as Lucky continued speaking.
"Your journey is only beginning, Melody, and there are going to be plenty of challenges waiting for you along the way. You'll face racers who are faster than you, stronger than you, more experienced than you, and there will be days when everything goes right as well as days when nothing seems to work in your favor."
"What ultimately matters isn't whether you happen to win or lose on any particular occasion, but whether you're willing to learn from every experience and use it to become better than you were before. If there's one thing I want you to remember, it's that."
Melody nodded instinctively despite knowing there was no way Lucky could see the gesture through the phone.
"I won't forget it," she replied earnestly. "And thank you again, not only for the advice you've given me but for taking the time to call in the first place. Getting the chance to speak with you has been incredible, and it's something I'm going to remember for the rest of my life."
Lucky's chuckle carried a familiar warmth as she answered. "In that case, I'm glad I called. Still, I probably shouldn't keep you any longer than I already have. We've got a bit of a time difference to deal with, and I imagine you've had an exhausting day after everything that's happened. Before I let you go, though, there's one last thing I want you to remember."
When she spoke again, her voice carried a gentleness that immediately drew Melody's full attention. "Your mother loved you, Melody, and your father loved you just as much."
Melody lowered her gaze toward the polished floor beneath her feet as a comforting warmth settled deep within her chest.
"I know they did," she replied quietly.
"I'm glad to hear that," Lucky said, and Melody could hear the smile in her words. "In that case, I'll leave you with one final thought. Best of luck next season. As I mentioned before, I don't usually spend much time following racing these days, but after watching what you accomplished at the Shūka Shō, I have a feeling I might start making an exception."
A brief silence settled between them, not uncomfortable but reflective, before Lucky spoke once more. "Take care of yourself, Melody, and make sure you keep moving forward."
"I will, and you take care of yourself too, Miss Strike."
A moment later the call came to an end, leaving Melody standing alone in the grand foyer with the receiver still pressed gently against her ear. Even after the line had gone silent, she remained where she was, feeling the lingering warmth of the conversation and wearing a smile that refused to fade from her face.
However, as Melody gently lowered the receiver back onto its cradle and heard the soft click of the casing settling into place, the warmth left behind by the conversation gradually began to give way to something else. The smile lingering on her lips remained for a moment longer before slowly fading as an uneasy feeling stirred within her chest, pulling her thoughts back toward a particular moment in the conversation that she could not seem to shake.
Lucky's mention of her father.
Although Lucky had recovered quickly and explained it away as nothing more than a slip of the tongue, Melody found herself increasingly unconvinced the more she thought about it. All her life, her grandparents had described her father as a troubled man, someone her mother had met during one of the more chaotic periods of her youth. The newspapers and magazine articles written about Kadokawa Hornet painted a similar picture, detailing her rebellious teenage years, the questionable company she kept, the nights spent in the back of police cruisers, and the appearances she made before juvenile courts.
According to the story she had always been told, a series of poor decisions had eventually led to an unexpected outcome, and that outcome was Melody herself. There had supposedly been a brief period during which her father had attempted to turn his life around, only to fall back into old habits and disappear from their lives soon afterward.
For most of her childhood, that explanation had sounded reasonable enough, but as she grew older, she began noticing more and more cracks in it, small inconsistencies that became increasingly difficult to dismiss once she started paying attention.
Lucky had not been the first person to say something she clearly had not intended to say. Over the years, Melody had caught countless family friends stumbling over their words whenever the topic of her father arose. Some would stop themselves halfway through a sentence before hastily changing subjects, while others would offer explanations that felt strangely rehearsed, as though they were repeating a version of events they had agreed upon long ago.
A few had even reacted with the sort of startled expression people wore when they accidentally revealed information they had never meant to share in the first place. Even Hana-sensei had slipped once or twice while talking about her mother, and those moments lingered in Melody's memory far longer than they probably should have.
What troubled her most was not any single inconsistency but the pattern they formed when viewed together. For a man she had always been told was a criminal, a failure, and a source of pain in her mother's life, remarkably few people ever spoke of him with resentment. In fact, whenever someone accidentally let their guard down, what surfaced was rarely anger or disappointment.
Instead, Melody would catch glimpses of something entirely different. Admiration hidden beneath a careless remark, respect concealed behind an awkward correction, fondness that slipped through before the speaker could stop themselves, and occasionally even genuine affection. The realization had crept up on her gradually over the years, so slowly that she had almost failed to notice it happening. Now, however, she could no longer ignore it. The conclusion seemed unavoidable.
They were hiding something from her.
Not just one person, but all of them. Her grandparents, their friends, and the people who had known her mother all seemed to share an understanding that Melody herself had been deliberately excluded from. Every time she felt as though she was drawing closer to the truth, someone would redirect the conversation, offer another carefully crafted explanation, or gently discourage her from asking further questions. Whatever secret they were protecting, it was important enough that everyone appeared committed to preserving it.
Melody shook her head and began walking back through the corridors of the manor, her bare feet tapping softly against the polished wood while her tail swayed restlessly behind her. She would never go so far as to call her grandparents liars. The thought alone felt cruel and disrespectful after everything they had done for her. They had raised her, cared for her, and loved her for as long as she could remember, and she had no doubt that whatever they were withholding was something they believed they were keeping from her for a reason.
Even so, she was no longer a child, and the explanations that might have satisfied a curious toddler years ago were becoming increasingly difficult to accept. With each passing year, the gaps in their story seemed more obvious than before, and her desire to understand the truth only grew stronger. Sooner or later, she knew she would find the answers she had been searching for, whether those answers were offered willingly or uncovered through her own persistence.
As she continued down the hallway, she found herself wondering not whether the truth would eventually come to light, but whether she would be ready for it when it did. That, more than anything else, was the question that truly frightened her.
****
Within the confines of the dimly lit dressing room, the black-haired uma sat quietly in her chair with her arms folded across her chest and one leg crossed elegantly over the other, her pale emerald eyes fixed upon the smartphone resting atop the dressing table before her. The room itself was neither extravagant nor particularly large, yet every inch of it reflected the life she had built over the years.
Along one wall stood a wardrobe so full that its doors could barely close properly, while beside it sat a wheeled garment rack crowded with performance costumes protected within transparent covers. Sequined jackets, tailored waistcoats, capes, gloves, and stage outfits of every imaginable style hung neatly in place, each one carrying memories of performances that spanned a decade.
The remaining walls served almost as a museum chronicling her life, with framed photographs covering nearly every available surface. Many of them showed Lucky standing shoulder to shoulder with celebrities, entertainers, athletes, and public figures from around the world, while others bore handwritten messages and autographs scrawled across their corners.
Among them, however, a handful held special significance. One featured her standing between Siegfried and Roy during one of their final public appearances together, while another showed her grinning beside Penn and Teller after a sold-out performance in Las Vegas. More than any award she had ever received, those photographs represented the realization of childhood dreams.
Just as Melody idolized the Godly Fifteen, Lucky had spent her youth idolizing magicians, memorizing their acts, studying their performances, and spending countless nights imagining what it would be like to stand alongside them one day. Looking back now, it still felt surreal that those dreams had become reality.
Beneath the photographs sat a collection of trophies and awards accumulated over a lifetime of accomplishments. Champion sashes from her racing days had been carefully preserved behind glass, while two Stardust Awards occupied a place of prominence near the center of the shelf. Surrounding them were dozens of accolades earned throughout her second career as an entertainer, including plaques, certificates, commemorative medals, and framed newspaper articles chronicling her rise through the world of stage magic. Magazine covers from her appearances on America's Got Talent and Fool Us occupied an entire section by themselves, preserving moments when audiences across the world had watched her accomplish feats many considered impossible.
As Lucky exhaled softly and settled further back into her chair, her gaze drifted downward toward the black tuxedo and tailored waistcoat she still wore. The fabric sat perfectly upon her frame despite the long evening, while her trademark top hat rested beside the phone on the dressing table. It was an outfit she had worn in one form or another for most of her life, and whether she was performing beneath spotlights before thousands of spectators or standing in the winner's circle after a major race, the ensemble had become inseparable from her identity. After so many years, it no longer felt like a costume at all but rather something far more familiar and comforting.
Eventually, her attention shifted toward a framed photograph resting slightly apart from the others. Unlike the celebrity portraits surrounding it, this one carried a far deeper significance. Fifteen young umas stood together within the image, their expressions ranging from proud smiles to outright mischief, while a young man occupied the center of the group with an arm draped casually across one shoulder and a grin that seemed completely unaware of the legacy that photograph would one day represent.
The Godly Fifteen, and Logan Deschain. A faint smile touched Lucky's lips as she reached forward and lightly brushed a fingertip against the frame.
"I know you're trying to protect her, Logan," she murmured into the quiet room. "Lord knows you've spent your whole life trying to protect people, whether they asked for it or not."
Her eyes remained on the photograph as she continued speaking, her words carrying the familiarity of someone addressing an old friend rather than a picture.
"But you and I both know she's every bit as much your daughter as she is Bee's, and if there's one thing I remember about either of you, it's that neither of you was ever particularly good at letting lies stand for long." A soft laugh escaped her before she added, "Especially not when someone starts pulling at loose threads."
The smile gradually faded as concern settled into her expression.
"She's clever, Logan. Far cleverer than most people give her credit for, and certainly clever enough to notice when everyone around her starts telling different versions of the same story." Her gaze lowered briefly before returning to the photograph. "The more she grows, the more questions she's going to ask, and eventually someone's going to slip up badly enough that she starts putting the pieces together."
The room fell silent once more as Lucky leaned back in her chair and stared at the photograph for several long seconds, her thoughts lingering on possibilities she could neither predict nor control.
"I just hope all of you know what you're doing," she said quietly at last. "Because when that girl finally learns the truth, I don't think any of us can predict how she's going to take it."
****
Rain hammered relentlessly against the tempered-glass window of the tiny studio apartment while the storm raged beyond its walls, each impact producing a dull, rhythmic tapping that seemed determined to remind Daichi that an entire world still existed outside the prison he had built for himself. The sound never stopped, lingering in the background day and night. Sometimes soft and distant, sometimes violent enough to rattle the windowpane, yet always present, like a persistent visitor refusing to leave.
Two weeks had passed since the incident at the convenience store, two weeks since Logan, Red, and two weeks since the blood that still stained his memory no matter how desperately he tried to scrub it away. Yet despite the passage of time, Daichi had barely left the apartment.
What had once been a cramped but livable space now resembled something abandoned by its owner months ago. The walls, painted a sickly shade of faded green, were cracked and stained from years of neglect, with sections of paint bubbling outward like infected wounds while other portions had peeled away entirely to expose discolored plaster beneath. Moisture from countless seasons had left dark streaks running down corners and seams, and patches of mildew had begun creeping across areas where sunlight rarely reached, spreading slowly through the room like a living thing.
The kitchenette fared even worse. The sink had long since disappeared beneath a mountain of unwashed dishes, cups, utensils, and instant noodle containers, while murky water sat stagnant at the bottom beneath a thin film of grease that reflected the dim television light whenever it shifted. Half-eaten meals had been abandoned wherever there happened to be space, leaving behind hardened sauces, dried rice, and forgotten scraps that had become feeding grounds for insects. Ants marched in organized trails across the countertops while gnats drifted lazily through the air in small swarms, hovering above sources of decay that had long since become impossible to identify.
Near the entrance stood a growing wall of garbage bags, some tied properly and many left open or only partially sealed. The black plastic bulged from being overfilled, stretched to the point where several looked ready to split open at any moment, while the odor leaking from them had become a permanent fixture within the apartment. It was a nauseating mixture of spoiled food, stale alcohol, mildew, and rot that clung stubbornly to every surface until even the air itself felt heavier because of it.
The rest of the apartment reflected much the same state of deterioration. Food wrappers, empty bottles, chip bags, and convenience-store packaging littered the tatami flooring, while magazines lay scattered in uneven piles and manga volumes remained open wherever they had been dropped. Crumpled receipts, loose papers, and forgotten notes covered every available surface, and clothes had long since ceased occupying any organized location, instead forming islands across the floor. Even the mattress shoved against the wall had vanished beneath a tangled mass of blankets, shirts, jackets, and laundry that had not been washed in so long that Daichi could no longer remember which pieces were clean and which weren't.
The room remained dark despite the hour because the curtains had not been opened in days, perhaps even weeks. Only the pale glow of the television illuminated the apartment, casting flickering shadows across the clutter while an anime episode played across the screen. It was one he had seen countless times before, yet he barely registered any of it as the characters spoke, the story unfolded, and the soundtrack swelled during emotional scenes that should have held his attention.
Wrapped tightly in a blanket and seated against the wall with his knees drawn close to his chest, Daichi stared blankly at the screen while dark circles hung beneath bloodshot eyes. His hair had become greasy and unkempt, sticking out at awkward angles, while the faint shadow of stubble had begun appearing along his jaw. He could not remember the last time he had showered, nor could he remember the last time he had slept properly.
Every time he closed his eyes, he found himself back inside that convenience store.
The memory replayed endlessly, refusing to fade no matter how much time passed. Again, and again he watched the scene unfold in perfect detail, as though his mind had become trapped within that moment. He remembered the blood, the screaming, the panic, and the violence. He remembered the cries of pain, the wet crack of breaking bone, the sound of teeth striking tile, and the desperate noises people made when they realized they were losing.
His jaw tightened at the recollection.
No matter how many times he tried to distract himself, the images always returned. He saw the pencil. He saw flesh giving way beneath it. He saw the repeated impact over and over again until the memory became impossible to separate from reality.
Yet none of that disturbed him as much as the memory of Logan himself. At first, Daichi had tried convincing himself that what happened in the alley weeks earlier had simply been a fight. A brutal one, certainly, but still just a fight. People got angry. People threw punches. People lost control. Those things happened, and while they were ugly, they were understandable.
What happened in the convenience store had been a bloodbath. The realization chilled him more than anything else. Logan had not been fighting. He had not been defending himself. He had not even seemed angry. Every movement had been intentional, every strike had carried purpose, and every action had been designed to inflict pain in the most efficient manner possible. There had been no hesitation, no uncertainty, and no visible struggle with conscience or restraint.
Logan had moved through the violence with the confidence of a man performing a task he had completed countless times before.
What haunted Daichi most was not the blood pooling across the floor, nor the injuries that had unfolded in front of him with such brutal clarity, nor even the fact that he had come so close to dying himself, but the expression Logan had worn through all of it. It was the calmness in his face, the terrible familiarity in his movements, and the horrifying realization that while everyone else in that convenience store had been living through the worst moment of their lives, Logan Deschain had carried himself as though violence of that kind was nothing more than routine, and somehow that frightened Daichi far more than the thought of death ever had.
The sound of a key sliding into the lock cut through the stagnant quiet of the apartment, followed by the faint scrape of metal against pins, the click of the mechanism giving way, and the dull snap of the knob turning. When the door opened, the storm outside rushed in for a brief moment, carrying with it the hiss of rain, the cold dampness of the corridor, and the distant rumble of the city beyond, before a pair of footsteps crossed the threshold and the door shut again, sealing Daichi back inside the stale, suffocating air he had been breathing for days. Water dripped from the canvas of an umbrella as it was leaned against the wall, each drop striking the floor near the entrance while the newcomer took in the state of the apartment with a silence that felt heavier than any greeting.
Daichi did not look over. In fact, he barely reacted at all. Even the scoff that followed failed to draw his attention, though he could feel the disgust rolling from the entrance as clearly as if it had entered the room ahead of the man himself.
Then the lights snapped on, flooding the apartment with harsh halogen brightness that exposed every stain, every overflowing trash bag, every plate crusted with old food, and every miserable corner Daichi had allowed to rot around him. He squinted against the sudden glare and lifted a hand to shield his eyes, wincing as though the light itself had struck him.
"When your manager called askin' me to check up on ya, I figured things were bad," the gruff voice said from the doorway. "Didn't think it'd be this freakin' bad."
Daichi slowly shifted his gaze toward the man standing near the entrance. Tall and broad-shouldered, the older man looked to be somewhere in his early forties, though the years sat heavily upon him in a way that made him seem older at times. His face was sharp and chiseled, with the rugged handsomeness of someone who had spent most of his life settling problems with his fists long before words ever entered the equation. Short dirty-blond hair, straightened and swept upward into uneven spikes, framed his features, while strands of grey had already begun creeping into the roots, offering small hints that time eventually caught up with everyone, even men who carried themselves like they were invincible.
His maroon shirt hung open several buttons below the collar, exposing a muscular chest and a pair of military dog tags resting against his skin. A dull emerald-green suit jacket matched the slacks he wore, the fabric expensive enough to suggest success yet worn with the casual indifference of someone who cared little for appearances. His white loafers had been left neatly by the doorway before entering, while a golden lapel pin engraved with the kanji for Umemiya caught the flickering light from the television whenever he moved.
One hand rested upon his hip while the other held a plastic convenience-store bag filled with supplies. His green eyes settled upon Daichi for a long moment before he kicked aside a pile of food wrappers with the toe of his sock and lowered the bag onto the floor. Through the plastic, Daichi could make out bottled drinks, several onigiri, instant noodles, and other necessities. The older man surveyed the apartment in silence, his gaze sweeping across the overflowing garbage, the scattered clothes, the mountains of dishes, and the stale darkness that seemed to cling to every corner of the room.
"Christ alive, kid," he finally muttered with the cadence of a street-born gangster. "Ya look like absolute shit."
Daichi lifted his eyes to meet the man's gaze, and the name came to him with a strange mixture of familiarity, gratitude, and exhaustion. Toma Hiragi, his uncle, and perhaps the closest thing he still had to family.
For as long as Daichi could remember, Hiragi had been the name nobody spoke aloud at family gatherings. He was the black sheep, the embarrassment, the cautionary tale whispered about behind closed doors whenever parents wanted to warn their children about the consequences of making poor decisions. Ever since his teenage years, Hiragi had built a reputation as a delinquent, the sort of young man who seemed physically incapable of staying out of trouble. Fights, gangs, arrests, suspensions. His name had become attached to all of it. As an adult, it had surprised absolutely no one when he eventually drifted deeper into the underworld.
At least, that was the story everyone told. What nobody ever mentioned was what happened afterward. When Daichi's parents threw him out like yesterday's garbage and the rest of the family suddenly found reasons to stop answering their phones, all those respectable relatives who had spent decades condemning the man were nowhere to be found. The aunts who preached family values vanished. The uncles who spoke endlessly about honor and responsibility disappeared. The cousins who had once smiled at reunions suddenly acted as though he no longer existed.
The only person who opened a door for him was the man they all claimed was worthless. Hiragi had taken one look at the duffel bag slung over Daichi's shoulder and invited him inside without asking a single question. He had put a hot bento in front of him, given him a place to sleep, covered the down payment on this miserable apartment, and handed him an opportunity to start over when nobody else had been willing to spare him so much as a sympathetic glance.
The irony had never been lost on Daichi. The man his family had spent years painting as a criminal and a failure had proven himself more dependable than every respectable relative combined. Hiragi possessed all the rough edges people claimed he did. He swore too much, drank too much, solved problems with alarming directness, and carried himself with the unmistakable presence of someone deeply connected to the darker side of society. Yet despite all of that, Daichi had never once doubted that the man genuinely cared.
Hiragi ran his fingers through his hair as his teeth clenched, his gaze sweeping over the apartment once more before settling back on Daichi with a frustration that seemed tangled up with concern. "I heard what happened," he said. "Heard what those Gurentai punks did, and I heard enough about what happened after to know it wasn't some little scrape you can shrug off over breakfast."
He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, as though forcing himself to keep his temper from turning the conversation into something worse. "Look, I ain't gonna downplay it, kid. Nobody gets a gun shoved in their face and walks away the same as before, ya know what I'm sayin'?"
Daichi said nothing as his eyes lowered toward the floor.
"But you've been cooped up in here for what, a week, maybe two?" Hiragi spread his arms. "Your manager's got you on payroll till the store's back to normal, so money ain't the problem right now, but you sure as hell are far from normal. If you wanna cry, scream, break somethin', or spend a night feelin' sorry for yourself, fine, go ahead, I ain't gonna pretend you don't got a reason. But I'm not lettin' you rot in this dump because you're too scared to take one step outside and deal with what happened."
A bitter laugh slipped from Daichi as he finally looked up, his tired eyes sharpening beneath the mess of unwashed hair falling across his face. "Deal with it?" he asked. "That's real easy to say when you're the one standing there telling somebody else to pull himself off the floor, suck it up, and act like a man."
Hiragi's expression flattened, though he did not interrupt.
"You weren't there," Daichi continued, the words spilling out now that the first crack had opened. "They didn't put a gun to your head. You didn't freeze up, piss yourself, and wonder if that was gonna be the last thing you ever felt before everything went black." His expression twisted as the memory clawed its way back through him. "And most of all, you didn't see what I saw."
Daichi's hand rose shakily to his chest as though he could physically hold himself together. "Do you know what it's like to hear someone's skull cave in?" he asked, his eyes wide and unfocused as the words spilled out with a delirious edge. "To hear bone snap, to hear blood hit the floor, to hear people screaming like they already know no one's coming to save them?"
His fingers dragged into his hair, gripping hard enough to make his knuckles whiten as tears gathered in his eyes. "And the worst part wasn't even the sound. It wasn't the blood, or the way they dropped, or the way everything happened so fast I couldn't make sense of it until it was already over." His lips trembled. "It was the look in his eyes."
He swallowed hard, his entire body shaking beneath the blanket. "He looked at them like they weren't even people, like they were pests, like ants under his shoe or flies buzzing too close to his face, and for a second I thought..." His breath hitched as the memory closed around him again. "I thought he was gonna look at me the same way."
Hiragi's eyebrow lifted as confusion hardened into suspicion. "The hell are ya yappin' about?" he asked. "Print says that gaijin cop was the one who went freakin' wild on those brats."
Daichi shook his head and forced himself to look up at his uncle again, meeting his eyes through the exhaustion, fear, and shame clinging to him. "No, that's what he made me say, what he made me do," he said. "He wiped the cameras clean, told me what to tell them, and made sure the whole thing pointed somewhere else, but there was someone else in that store. Logan Deschain was there."
"Logan?" Hiragi tilted his head, his expression tightening with recognition. "You mean the same gaijin who's been comin' to your store for the last two years, the same one you told me was supposed to be the freakin' Hand of God?" He folded his arms as his gaze narrowed. "That Logan? You're tellin' me some washed-up uma trainer walked in and schooled those punks?"
"He didn't just school them. He…" Daichi replied, his teeth clenching as the memory rose again and twisted through his gut. "I still see it every time I close my eyes, and I still hear it like I'm standing there all over again."
"Kid," Hiragi said, and for once the roughness in his words softened into something closer to concern, "it's over, alright? Shit happened, and I'm not sayin' it wasn't bad, but it's in the past now. You gotta let it go before it keeps chainin' you down, because if ya keep feedin' that fear, you're never gonna—"
"No!" Daichi shouted, the word tearing out of him before Hiragi could finish. "Don't tell me to put it out of my head, don't tell me to suck it up, and don't tell me to forget about it like I can just wipe it away because you think that's what I'm supposed to do!"
His words cracked as anger and panic bled together. "I'm not you, Unc. I didn't spend my school days at Furin kickin' ass and throwin' punches like you did, and I didn't grow up staring down guns or goin' toe to toe with gangsters!"
His hands clenched in the blanket as his expression twisted. "I'm me. I'm this pathetic, useless loser who couldn't even move when it mattered, and hell, even my own parents didn't want me around because they knew I was nothing."
Hiragi's expression changed in an instant, the softness vanishing as something hot and furious snapped into place. He reached down, seized Daichi by the collar, and hauled him up with enough force that the blanket slipped from his shoulders and dropped to the floor, before slamming him back against the wall hard enough to rattle the clutter around them.
"Now ya listen here, ya little shit," Hiragi snarled, his face inches from Daichi's as his grip tightened in the fabric. "I've let a lotta crap slide, especially when it comes to you, and I've talked myself down more than once from puttin' a boot up your ass when ya needed one." His green eyes burned. "But what I won't let fly, what I won't stand here and listen to, is you callin' yourself a loser."
Daichi's expression faltered but Hiragi did not release him.
"Ya think I would've opened my door to ya if I thought you were a lost cause?" he continued. His words rough but carrying more feeling than Daichi had expected. "I've watched grown men drown for less than what you've been through, and I didn't throw you a bone outta pity. I did it because I know what it's like to be where ya are, backed into a corner with everyone who was supposed to give a damn actin' like yer already dead."
His jaw tightened. "I don't give a shit what yer parents said or what they thought they saw when they looked at ya, because as far as I'm concerned, they're the losers for throwin' away their own blood and bein' too blind to see what was right in front of them."
His grip loosened slightly, though his glare remained fixed on Daichi. "And I'll be damned before I stand here and watch you start believin' their bullshit, ya get what I'm sayin'?"
Daichi hesitated before giving a small nod, and only then did Hiragi's grip ease as his hand shifted to the side of Daichi's head, rough fingers patting him in a way that was too heavy to be gentle yet too careful to be anything but affection. "Good," he muttered. "Now get your ass into that tub and wash the stink off before the mold starts charging you rent."
His gaze swept across the apartment again, taking in the trash, the dishes, the laundry, and the stale little grave Daichi had made for himself, and his expression twisted with renewed disgust. "And for the love of God, once you're done, clean this damn place up before I start thinkin' the garbage bags are payin' rent too."
Before Daichi could answer, the apartment door opened again, letting in the sound of rain for a brief moment before it was shut away once more. Both Daichi and Hiragi turned toward the entrance, where Light stood frozen with a transparent umbrella in hand, her eyes wide as rainwater dripped from the plastic canopy onto the floor.
"Oh," she muttered, looking between them. "Pardon me for the intrusion."